“You’re right,” Claire said. “I don’t like it. It’s not fair, but I don’t like it.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to like it.”

“So you’re trying to make me jealous, then? Is that why you’re going?”

“No,” he said. “I’m going because Daphne wants to get away someplace warm, and I can’t blame her, and I have guilt, Claire, and one of the ways to assuage my guilt is to throw Daphne a bone, and Tortola is that bone.”

“Couldn’t you have bought her something? A diamond ring?”

“She wanted to get away.”

Well, that was something Claire understood. The island was frigid, gray, rainy, and miserable, without a single sign of spring except for a few hardy crocuses. Maybe Claire and Jason should go away. They could one-up Lock and Daphne and go to Venezuela or Belize. But Jason would never agree to it; he didn’t even like to go to Hyannis.

“Okay,” Claire said. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

Did she? No!

“Yes,” she said.

She understood, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t filled with jealousy, fury, and longing. Lock had promised he would stay in touch by e-mail, but after checking her e-mail fifteen times in the first four hours of his absence, Claire gave up. She didn’t have time to pine after someone like this; she didn’t have time to go into her home office, log on to the computer, punch in her secret password, and wait while the computer told her there were no new messages in her in-box. She had to put her heart in a crate of straw along with the newborn chandelier; she had to tuck it away in the storage closet until Lock came back. She should take advantage of this time apart and use it to spend time with her children.

Zack was turning one. Her baby! Zack had made some progress. Instead of sitting like a potted plant before crying to be picked up, he scooted forward on his butt if he really wanted something. Claire threw a small party for his birthday. Siobhan and Carter and the boys came over, and Claire made spaghetti and homemade meatballs and a beautiful salad and golden crispy garlic bread. She went to great pains to make a cake that looked like a giraffe, because although Zack couldn’t say the word “giraffe,” it was the one animal he was able to identify. When Claire asked, “Where’s the giraffe, Zack?” he pointed right to it. It was his favorite animal! Claire made a template out of paper, she cut the cakes just so, she dyed the icing yellow and brown, she placed gumdrops for the eyes.

“It’s a gorgeous cake,” Siobhan said. “Must have taken you forever.”

Claire said, “Yeah, it did, but I found myself with some extra time this week.”

Siobhan stared at her, and Claire busied herself with the salad dressing.

The birthday dinner was a success, Claire decided, despite the fact that Zack cried when they sang, despite the fact that he was more interested in chewing the wrapping paper than in the presents inside. Claire drank four glasses of the blasted viognier and it made her teary. She had no idea if Lock remembered that it was Zack’s birthday, though back in the fall he had asked Claire to write all the kids’ birthdays down so he could memorize them. Claire had not predicted how emotionally fraught Zack’s birthday would be—because contained within the celebration was the unspoken fact that they had almost lost him, that he’d been born so early, so unprepared for life outside the womb. Only two pounds seven ounces, he’d fit in Jason’s palm; he wore a diaper the size of a cocktail napkin. No one mentioned her fall in the hot shop or the jet ride to Boston or the five weeks in the hospital. Was Claire the only one who remembered? She looked at Zack and thought, I am so sorry, buddy.

The party was lovely, the food delicious, the cake charming. Zack was fine, Claire told herself. He was whole and healthy and loved.

As Claire was clearing the dishes, Siobhan, who had consumed no small amount of wine herself, wiped the lenses of her glasses on her dinner napkin and said, “Guess who I caught going to confession last week?”

Claire’s heart went into a free fall; she said nothing. Jason and Carter said, “Who?”

And Siobhan said, “Claire.”

Claire set the dishes in the sink and turned on the water, full blast and hot.

Carter said, “Got something on your conscience, Claire?”

Siobhan said, “Something big, I’d say.”

Steam rose from the sink. Jason said, “Hey, now, leave her alone. You know Claire, always stopping her car so the guinea hens can cross, instead of running them off the road like the rest of us do. She’s as pure as the driven snow.”

They all laughed at that, and the matter was forgotten. When, at the end of the night, Claire kissed Siobhan good-bye, Siobhan tasted bitter, like antiseptic.

And even later, when Jason came to bed, he stroked Claire’s hip and said, “I understand why you went to confession. We’re lucky to have him, you know? We’re lucky the little guy is alive.”

The next morning, Claire took Zack to Dr. Patel’s office for his twelve-month shots. Claire had checked her e-mail—nothing—and she checked her cell phone every twenty minutes for a text message. Surely Lock could send a text message?

Zack was gaining weight, he was getting taller, and his eyes looked good, as did his ears, nose, and throat; his lungs were clear, his reflexes automatic. He screamed during the shots, yowled so that Claire tensed every muscle in her body, but then she held him and gave him his pacifier and he calmed down.